Chapter Eight.

How Dickie went to the Circus.

“Has you ever seen a circus, Andoo?”

“Aye, missie.”

“When has you seen it?”

“Years ago, little missie—years ago. When I was a fool.”

“Is you fool now, Andoo?”

“Maybe, missie, maybe,” (with a grim smile); “but I surely was then.”

Dickie dismissed the subject for the moment, and turned her attention to the little green barrow full of sticks which she had just wheeled into the potting shed. There was a pleasant mingled scent of apples, earth, and withered leaves there; from the low rafters hung strings of onions, pieces of bass, and bunches of herbs, and in one corner there was a broken-backed chair, and Andrew’s dinner upon it tied up in a blue checked handkerchief. Bending over his pots and mould by the window in his tall black hat, and looking as brown and dried-up as everything round him, was Andrew himself, and Dickie stood opposite, warmly muffled up, but with a pink tinge on her small round nose from the frosty air. She was always on good terms with Andrew, and could make him talk sometimes when he was silent for everyone else; so, although she very seldom understood his answers, they held frequent conversations, which seemed quite satisfactory on both sides.

Her questions to-day about the circus had been called forth by the fact that she had seen, when out walking with Nurse, a strange round white house in a field near the village. On asking what it was, she had been told that it was a tent. What for? A circus. And what was a circus? A place where horses went round and round. What for? Little girls should not ask so many questions. Dickie felt this to be unsatisfactory, and she accordingly made further inquiries on the first opportunity.

She laid her dry sticks neatly in the corner, and grasping the handles of her barrow, stood facing Andrew silently, who did not raise his grave long face from his work; he did not look encouraging, but she was quite used to that.

“Did ’oo like it, Andoo?” she inquired presently with her head on one side.

“Well, you see, missie,” replied Andrew, “I lost the best thing I had there, through being a fool.”

“Tell Dickie all about it,” said Dickie in a coaxing voice.

She turned her little barrow upside down as she spoke, sat down upon it, and placed one mittened hand on each knee.

“Dickie kite yeddy. Begin,” she said in a cheerful and determined manner.

Andrew took off his hat, and feebly scratched his head; he looked appealingly at the little figure on the barrow as though he would gladly have been excused the task, but though placid, the round face was calmly expectant.

“I dunno as I can call it to mind,” he said apologetically; “you see, missie, it wur a powerful time ago. A matter of twenty years, it wur. It was when I lost my little gal.”

“Where is ’oor ’ittle gal?” asked Dickie.

“Blessed if I know,” said Andrew, shaking his head mournfully; “but wherever she be, she ain’t not to call a little gal now, missie. She wur jest five years old when I lost her, an’ it’s twenty years ago. That’ll make her a young woman of twenty-five, yer see, missie, by this time.”

“Why did ’oo lose ’oor ’ittle gal?” pursued Dickie, avoiding the question of age.

“Because I wur a fool,” replied Andrew frowning.

“Tell Dickie,” repeated the child, to whom the “little gal” had now become more interesting than the circus; “tell Dickie all about ’oor ’ittle gal.”

“Well, missie,” began Andrew with a sigh, “it wur like this. After her mother died my little gal an’ I lived alone. I wasn’t a gardener then, I was in the cobblin’ line, an’ sat all day mendin’ an’ patchin’ the folks’ boots an’ shoes. Mollie wur a lovin’ little thing, an’ oncommon sensible in her ways. She’d sit at my feet an’ make-believe to be sewin’ the bits of leather together, an’ chatter away as merry as a wren. Then when I took home a job, she’d come too an’ trot by my side holdin’ me tight by one finger—a good little thing she was, an’ all the folks in the village was fond of her, but she always liked bein’ with me best—bless her ’art, that she did.”

Andrew stopped suddenly, and drew out of his pocket a red cotton handkerchief.

“Why did ’oo lose her?” repeated Dickie impatiently.

“It wur like this, missie,” resumed Andrew. “One day there come a circus to the village, like as it might be that out in the field yonder, an’ there was lots of ’orses, and dogs that danced, an’ fine ladies flyin’ through hoops, an suchlike. Mollie, she wanted to go an’ see ’em. Nothing would do but I must take her. I can see her now, standin’ among the scraps of leather, an’ the tools, an’ the old boots, an’ saying so pleadin’, ‘Do’ee take Molly, daddie, to see the gee-gees.’ So, though I had a job to finish afore that night, I said I’d take her, an’ I left my work, an’ put on her red boots—”

“Yed boots?” said Dickie inquiringly, looking down at her own stumpy black goloshes.

“Someone had giv’ me a scrap of red leather, an’ I’d made her a pair of boots out of it,” said Andrew; “they didn’t cost me nothin’ but the work—so I put ’em on, an tied on her little bonnet an’ her handkercher, an’ we went off. Mollie was frighted at first to see the ’orses go round so fast, an’ the people on their backs cuttin’ all manner of capers, just as if they wur on dry ground. She hid her face in my weskit, an’ wouldn’t look up; but I coaxed her a bit, an’ when she did she wur rarely pleased. She clapped her hands, an’ her cheeks wur red with pleasure, an’ her blue eyes bright. She wur a pretty little lass, Mollie wur.”

Andrew stopped a minute with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on Dickie, and yet as though he scarcely saw her. She hugged herself with her little crossed arms, and murmured confidentially, “Dickie will go to the circus too.”

“There wur a chum of mine sittin’ next,” continued Andrew, “an’ by and by, when the place was gettin’ very hot, an’ the sawdust the horses threw up with their heels was fit to choke yer, he says to me, ‘Old chap,’ he says, ‘come out an’ take a glass of summat jest to wet yer whistle.’

“‘I can’t,’ says I, ‘I’ve got my little gal to look after. I can’t leave her.’ But I was dry, an’ the thought of a glass of beer was very temptin’, ‘no call to be anxious over that,’ says he; ‘you won’t be gone not five minutes, an ’ere’s this lady will keep an eye on her fur that little while, I’m sure.’ ‘Certingly,’ says the woman sitting next, who was a stranger to me but quite respectable-lookin’. ‘You come to me, my dearie!’ and she lifted Mollie on to her knee an’ spoke kind to her, an’ the child seemed satisfied; an’ so I went.”

Andrew coughed hoarsely but went on again after a minute, speaking more to himself than Dickie—who, indeed, did not understand nearly all he had been saying.

“When I got into the ‘Blue Bonnet’ there wur three or four more of my chums a-settin’ round the fire an’ havin’ a argyment. ‘’Ere,’ says one, ‘we’ll hear what Andrew Martin’s got to say to it. He’s a tough hand at speakin’—he’ll tell us the rights on it.’ An’ before I knew a’most I wur sittin’ in my usual place next the fire, with a glass of beer in my hand. I wur pleased, like a fool, to think I could speak better nor any of ’em; an’ I went on an’ on, an’ it wasn’t till I heard the clock strike that I thought as how I’d left my little gal alone in the circus for a whole hour. I got up pretty quick then, for I thought she’d be frighted, but not that she could come to any harm. So I went back straight to where I left her with the woman, an’—”

“What does ’oo stop for?” said Dickie impatiently.

“She wur gone, missie!” said Andrew solemnly, spreading out his hands with a despairing gesture—“gone, an’ the woman too! I’ve never seen my little gal since that day.”

“Where is ’oor ’ittle gal?” asked Dickie.

“Lost, missie! lost!” said Andrew shaking his head mournfully. “I sha’n’t never see her no more now. Parson he was very kind, an’ offered a reward, an’ set the perlice to work to find her. ’Twarn’t all no good. So I giv’ up the cobblin’ an’ went about the country doin’ odd jobs, because I thought I might hear summat on her; but I never did, an’ after years had gone by I come ere an’ settled down again. So that’s how I lost my little gal, an’ it’s nigh twenty years ago.”

At this moment Nurse’s voice was heard outside calling for Dickie, and Andrew’s whole manner changed at the sound. He thrust the red handkerchief into his pocket, clapped his hat firmly over his eyes, and bent towards his work with his usual cross frown.

Dickie looked up with a twinkling smile as Nurse came bustling in.

“Andoo tell Dickie pitty story,” she said.

“Ho, indeed!” said Nurse with a sharp glance at Andrew’s silent figure. “Mr Martin keeps all his conversation for you, Miss Dickie, I think; he don’t favour other people much with it.”

On their way to the house Dickie did her best to tell Nurse all she had heard from Andrew; but it was not very clear, and left her hearer in rather a confused state of mind. There was something about a ’ittle gal, and red boots, and a circus, and something that was lost; but whether it was the red boots that were lost, or the little girl, was uncertain. However, Nurse held up her hands at proper intervals and exclaimed, “Only fancy!” “Gracious me!” and so on, as if she understood perfectly; and when Dickie came to the last sentence this was really the case, for she said in a decided voice:

“Dickie will go to the circus too.”

“No, no,” replied Nurse; “Dickie is too little to go—she will stay at home with poor Nursie and baby.”

It seemed to Dickie that they always said she was too little when she wanted to do anything nice, but if ever she cried or was naughty they said she was too big: “Oh, fie, Miss Dickie! a great girl like you!” If she was a great girl she ought to go to the circus; and she repeated firmly, “Me will go,” adding a remark about “Andoo’s ’ittle gal,” which Nurse did not hear.

At dinner-time there was nothing spoken of but the circus; the children came in from their walk quite full of it, and of all the wonderful things they had seen in the village. Outside the blacksmith’s forge there was a great bill pasted, which showed in bright colours the brilliant performance of “Floretta the Flying Fairy” on horseback; there was also a full-length portrait of Mick Murphy the celebrated clown.

Even more exciting were the strange caravans and carts arriving in the field where the large tent had already been put up; and Ambrose had caught sight of a white poodle trimmed like a lion, which he felt quite sure was one of the dancing-dogs.

The circus was to stop two days—might the children go to-morrow afternoon?

There was a breathless silence amongst them whilst this question was being decided, and mother said something to Miss Grey in French; but after a little consultation it was finally settled that they were to go. Dickie had listened to it all, leaving her rice-pudding untasted; now she stretched out her short arm, and, pointing with her spoon at her mother, said:

“Dickie too.”

But Mrs Hawthorn only smiled and shook her head.

“No, not Dickie,” she said; “she is too young to go. Dickie will stay at home with mother.”

Now the vicar was not there—if he had been he would probably have said, “Let her go;” and Dickie knew this—it had happened sometimes before. So now, although she turned down the corners of her mouth and pushed up one fat shoulder, she murmured rather defiantly:

“Dickie will ask father.”

The next day was Saturday—sermon day, and the vicar was writing busily in his study when he heard some uncertain sounds outside, as though some little animal were patting the handle of the door—the cat most likely—and he paid no attention to it, until he felt a light touch on his arm. Looking down he saw that it was Dickie, who, having made her way in, stood at his elbow with eager eyes and a bright flush of excitement on her cheeks.

“Please, father,” she said at once, “take Dickie to see the gee-gees.”

The vicar pushed back his chair a little and lifted her on to his knee. He would have liked to go on with his sermon, but he always found it impossible to send Dickie away if she once succeeded in getting into his study.

“What does Dickie want?” he asked rather absently.

“Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees,” she repeated in exactly the same tone as at first.

The vicar took up his pen again and made a correction in the last sentence he had written, still keeping one arm round Dickie. But this divided attention did not please her; she stuck out two little straight brown legs and said reflectively:

“Dickie got no yed boots.”

“No, no,” said the vicar with his eyes on his sermon; “Dickie’s got pretty black boots.”

“Andoo’s ’ittle gal got yed boots,” pursued Dickie.

“Andrew’s little girl! Andrew hasn’t got a little girl,” said her father.

For answer Dickie pursed-up her lips, looked up in his face, and began to nod very often and very quickly.

“Where is she, then?” asked the vicar.

Dickie stopped nodding, and, imitating Andrew as well as she could, shook her head mournfully, spread out her hands, and said:

“Lost! lost!”

“You funny little thing!” said the vicar, laying down his pen and looking at her. “I wonder what you’ve got into your head. Wouldn’t Dickie like to run upstairs now?”

But she only swung herself backwards and forwards on his knee and repeated very fast, as if she were saying a lesson:

“Please, father, take Dickie to see gee-gees.”

There was evidently no chance of getting rid of her unless this question were answered, and the sermon must really be finished. The vicar looked gravely at her and spoke slowly and impressively:

“If Dickie is a good little girl, and will go upstairs to the nursery directly, and stay there, father will ask if she may go and see the gee-gees.”

Dickie got down and trotted away obediently, for she thought she had gained her point; but alas later on, when mother was appealed to, she was still quite firm on the subject—Dickie must not go to the circus. The four other children were enough for Miss Grey to take care of, and Nurse could not be spared—Dickie must stay at home and be a good little girl.

Stay at home she must, as they were all against her; but to be a good little girl was quite another thing, and I am sorry to say it was very far from her intention. If she were not taken to the circus she would be as naughty a little girl as she possibly could. So when she had seen the others go off, all merry and excited, leaving her in the dull nursery, she threw herself flat on her face, drummed with her feet on the floor, and screamed. At every fresh effort which Nurse made to soothe her the screams became louder and the feet beat more fiercely, and at last the baby began to cry too for sympathy.

Dickie was certainly in one of her “tantrums,” and Nurse knew by experience that solitude was the only cure, so after a while she took Cicely into the next room and shut the door. For some time Dickie went on crying, but presently when she found that Nurse did not come back the sobs quieted down a little, and the small feet were still; then she lifted her face up from the floor with big tears on her cheeks and listened. Hark! what was that funny noise? Boom boom! boom! and then a sort of trampling. It was the circus in the field close by, and presently other strange sounds reached her ear. She looked at the door leading into the bed-room—it was fast shut, and Nurse was walking up and down, singing to the baby in a low soothing tone. Dickie got up from the floor and stood upright with sudden resolve shining in her eyes: she would go to the circus in spite of them all!

Fortune favours the disobedient sometimes as well as the brave, and she met no one to ask where she was going on her journey through the passages; when she came to the top of the stairs she saw that the hall was empty and silent too—only the dog Snuff lay coiled up on the mat like a rough brown ball. He had not been allowed to go to the circus either. She went slowly down, holding by the balusters and bringing both feet carefully on to each step; as she passed him Snuff opened one bright eye, and, watching her, saw that she went straight to the cupboard under the stairs, where the children’s garden coats and hats were kept. There they hung, five little suits, each on its own peg, and with its own pair of goloshes on the ground beneath. Dickie’s things were on the lowest peg, so that she might reach them easily and dress herself without troubling anyone. She struggled into the small grey coat, tied the bonnet firmly under her fat chin, and sat down on the lowest stair to put on the goloshes. Snuff got up, sniffed at her, and gave a short bark of pleasure, for he felt quite sure now that she was going into the garden; but Snuff was wrong this time, as he soon found when he trotted after her. Dickie had wider views, and though she went out of the garden door, which stood open, she turned into a path leading to the front of the house and marched straight down the drive. Through the white gate they went together, the little grey figure and the little brown one, and along the village street. It was more deserted than usual, for everyone was either in the circus or gaping at the outside of it, and Dickie and her companion passed on unquestioned. Soon they reached the field where the tent and some gaily-painted caravans stood; but here came an unexpected difficulty. Which was the circus? Dickie stood still and studied the question with large round eyes, and her finger in her mouth, Snuff looking up at her wistfully.

Nearest to them there was a large travelling caravan, with windows and curtains, and smoke coming out of a funnel in the roof; its sides were brightly decorated with pictures of horses, and of wonderfully beautiful ladies jumping through hoops, and there was also a picture of a funny gentleman with red patches on his face. This must be the circus, Dickie decided at last, and she proceeded to climb up the steps in front, closely followed by Snuff. The door was a tiny bit open, and she gave it a push and looked in. Things never turn out to be much like what we have expected, and it was so in Dickie’s case, for what she saw was this:

A small room with a low bed in one corner, and a black stove, and pots and dishes hanging on the walls; a cradle with a baby in it, and by the cradle a pleasant-faced young woman sitting in a wicker chair sewing busily—so busily that it was quite a minute before she raised her eyes and saw the little grey-coated figure standing at the door with the dog at its side.

“Well, little dear,” she said, “an’ what do you want?”

Dickie murmured something, of which only the word circus was distinct.

“Is mammy at the circus?” asked the woman smiling; but Dickie shook her head decidedly.

“Why, bless your little ’art,” said the woman, getting up from her chair, “I expect you’ve lost your folks. You come in and stay a-longer me till the circus is done, and then we’ll find ’em. Jem ’ull be ’ome then. I’d go myself, but I can’t leave the little un here.”

Dickie began to pout in a distressed manner when the woman took her up in her arms; this was not the circus after all. But just as she was making up her mind to cry her attention was caught by something lying on the baby’s cradle, and she held out her hand for it and said “Pitty!” It was a tiny roughly-made scarlet leather boot, rather faded and worn, but still bright enough to please Dickie’s fancy. She chuckled to herself as the woman gave it her, and muttered something about “Andoo’s ’ittle gal;” and presently, tired with her great adventure and made drowsy by the warmth of the little room, she dropped off to sleep on the woman’s knee, with the boot hugged tightly to her bosom.

“Pretty dear! What a way her folks will be in!” said the woman to herself, and she laid Dickie softly on the bed and covered her with a shawl.

They were indeed “in a way” at the vicarage. When the circus party came back they found everyone in a state of most dreadful anxiety, and the whole house in confusion. Dickie was missing! Every crevice and corner was searched, and every place, likely and unlikely, that a child could be in. No Dickie. Could she possibly have gone into the village alone? It was getting dusk; there were strange people and tramps about—it was an alarming thought. Andrew must go at once and inquire at every cottage.

Andrew went, lantern in hand, and chin buried in his old grey comforter. “Had anyone seen Miss Dickie and the dorg that arternoon?”

No; no one had seen little missie. Always the same answer until he got to the circus field, where knots of people still lingered talking of the performance. Amongst these he pushed his way, making the same inquiry, sometimes, if they were strangers, pausing to give a description of Dickie and Snuff; and at last the answer came from a thin man with a very pale face, who was standing near the entrance to the tent:

“Right you are, gaffer. The little gal’s all serene. My missus has got her in the caravan yonder.”

Guided by many outstretched and dirty fingers, Andrew made his way up the steps and told his errand to the woman within. There was Dickie, sleeping as peacefully as though she were tucked up in her own little cot; Snuff, who was curled up at her feet, jumped up and greeted Andrew with barks of delight, but even this did not rouse her.

“There,” said the woman, lifting the child gently, “you’d better take her just as she is, shawl an’ all; it’s bitter cold outside, an’ you’ll wake her else.”

She laid Dickie in the long arms stretched out to receive her, and as she did so the shawl fell back a little.

“She’s got summat in her hand,” said Andrew, glancing at the little red boot.

“So she has, bless her,” said the woman; “you’ll mind an’ bring that back with the shawl, please, mister. I set store by yonder little boot.”

Andrew stared hard at the woman. “The vicar’ll be werry grateful to you for takin’ care of the little gal,” he said. “What might be yer name, in case he should ax’ me?”

“My name’s Murphy,” she answered, “Molly Murphy; my husband’s Mr Murphy, the clown, him you see in the playbills.”

Still Andrew stood with his eyes fixed on her face; then he looked from her to the little boot clutched so tightly in Dickie’s fat fist.

“Might you ’appen to have the feller one to this?” he asked.

“Surely,” answered the woman. “Once they was mine, an’ now I’m keeping ’em against my little gal’s old enough to wear ’em.”

She held out the other red boot.

“Is there—is there,” asked Andrew hesitating, “two big ‘M’s’ wrote just inside the linin’?”

“Right you are,” answered the woman; “an’ it stands fur—”

“It stands fur ‘Molly Martin,’” said Andrew, sitting suddenly down on the edge of the bed with Dickie in his arms. “Oh, be joyful in the Lord, all ye lands! I set every stitch in them little boots myself’, an’ you’re the little gal I lost twenty years ago!”

It really did turn out to be Andrew’s little girl, grown into a young woman and married to Mr Murphy the clown. The whole village was stirred and excited by the story, and Andrew himself, roused for the moment from his usual surly silence, told it over and over again to eager audiences as he had to Dickie, only now it had a better ending.

The children at the vicarage found it wonderfully interesting—more so than one of Pennie’s very best, and the nice part about it was that it had been Dickie who discovered Andrew’s little girl. Indeed, instead of being scolded for disobedience as she deserved, Dickie was made into a sort of heroine; when she was brought home sound asleep in Andrew’s arms, everyone was only anxious to hug and kiss her, because they were so glad to get her back again, and the next day it was much the same thing. The children were breathless with admiration when the history of the red boot was told, and Dickie’s daring adventure, and Mrs Hawthorn was scarcely able to get in a word of reproof.

“But you know,” she said, “that though we’re all glad Andrew’s daughter is found, still it was naughty and wilful of Dickie to go out by herself. She knew she was doing wrong, and disobeying mother.”

“But if she hadn’t,” remarked David, “most likely Andrew never would have found his little girl.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mrs Hawthorn; “but it might not have ended so well. Dickie might have been hurt or lost. Good things sometimes come out of wrong things, but that does not make the wrong things right.”

Still the children could not help feeling glad that Dickie had been disobedient—just that once.

And then another wonderful thing to think of was that Andrew was now really related to the clown, whose appearance and manners they had all admired so much the day before. That delightful, witty person, whose ready answers and pointed pleasantries made everyone else seem dull and stupid! He was now Andrew’s son-in-law. It appeared, however, that Andrew was not so grateful for this advantage as he might have been.

“Aren’t you glad, Andrew,” asked Nancy, “that Molly married the clown?”

“Why, no, missie,” he answered, scraping his boot on the side of his spade, “I can’t say as I be.”

“Why not? He must be such a nice man, and so amusing.”

“Well,” said Andrew, “it’s a matter of opinion, that is; it’s not a purfesson as I should choose, making a fool of myself for other fools to laugh at. Not but what he do seem a sober, decent sort of chap, and fond of Molly; so it might a been worse, I’ll not deny that.”

A sober, decent sort of chap! What a way to refer to a brilliantly gifted person like the clown!

“An’ they’ve promised me one thing,” continued he as he shouldered his spade, “an’ that is that they’ll not bring up the little un to the same trade. She’s to come an’ live a-longer me when she’s five years old, an’ have some schoolin’ an’ be brought up decent. I don’t want my gran-darter to go racin’ round on ’orses an’ suchlike.”

“Then you’ll have a little girl to live with you, just as you used to,” said Pennie.

“And her name will be Mollie too,” said Ambrose.

“But you won’t take her to the circus again, I should think?” added David.

“Andoo’s ’ittle gal had yed boots,” said Dickie, and here the conversation finished.

The End.